On the Grave of Michael Gordon

ONE more gravestone—one more heart

Cold and still has found relief,

From the joy and bitter smart,

From the wrath of other’s grief.

Where the ash is strewn about

Lies the dear old fiddle lone

And the crazy song rang out

With a sudden sound of moan.

Strong and earnest, unafraid

Rose the song clear and high.

Ring the bell—the piece is played!

Hushed the laughter, hushed the cry.

In the land where, free from pain,

Thou, dear soul, art gone to live,

One assurance still retain

All the comfort we can give.

This, while yet there lives a Jew,

Through the many coming years

Shall thy songs be sung anew

Some with laughter, some with tears.

Sleep thou spirit sweet and rare,

Where the leaves of life are shed!

Thine own songs shall be the Pray’r

Spoke in blessing o’er the dead.